


What may be found

by catalectic



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalectic/pseuds/catalectic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ost-in-Edhil has fallen, and those who are left behind struggle to regain what they have lost. </p><p>Meanwhile, Glorfindel clings to what remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larienelengasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larienelengasse/gifts).



There was heat, and then a fall, and an all-consuming darkness.

 

Glorfindel remembered little of his death. This was the way of things, he was told, to ease the path of those who had passed into Námo’s care. He remembered with some clarity all the things that had made up his former life, his friends, people he served and served with, places he had lived, or seen only briefly. His death, though, was as a dream. He felt nothing of the Balrog’s fire, or of the cliff’s edge, only that it had happened and was now done.

 

And he was returned.

 

When that impassive, shadowed face had gazed down upon him and asked for his choice, he had gladly agreed to do what was asked of him. His spirit had leapt at the thought of it – Arda, once again! Changed, to be sure, with the great swathes of land he had known now drowned, and with many of the people who had coloured his life just as lost as he had been, but filled with possibility and hope, and some few still left who might remember him.

 

But when he had taken up his task, gathered the small belongings with which he had been provided, and embarked upon his ship into an as-yet unknown East, he had not considered, in his excitement, that those left behind had taken a far longer road to their present than had he in the care of Námo. Time had changed them in ways he had yet to accustom himself to, and now…

 

Glorfindel cast his eye over Galdor, bowed low over his desk with his chin resting on his hand. The imposing bulk of him was oddly out of place with pen in hand, and yet it was so familiar that he ached with it. Once, he could have laid hands on the broad shoulders and pressed there, and Galdor would have yielded, his work forgotten and his mind turned to far more pleasing things.

 

Galdor’s room in the High King’s halls was every bit as well-appointed as had been each of their quarters in Gondolin. The drapery was wine-red and heavy in the Noldorin style, to keep the stone from leaching the heat of the fire, and the chairs in which they sat were deep and comfortable. Some things, though, were rather different.

 

He rolled his wineglass between his hands, watching firelight dance through the crystal. Galdor's bark-brown hair tickled at his cheek as it curled, and he batted at it distractedly.

 

“The weather continues fair,” he ventured, and immediately regretted. The weather? Surely they were not that desperate for conversation. It seemed not to matter, though, as Galdor merely hummed and frowned down at his work, flipping a page over.

 

 _Work, and war, and work for war_ , he wanted to say, _and so rarely did you allow yourself anything else_.

 

After a moment, he drained his glass, placed it on the floor beside the chair and then clapped his hands sharply. Galdor jerked and looked up.

 

“Very well!” he said with a rather strained joviality, “I can see you have much with which to occupy yourself tonight.”

 

“It is only the accounts – I will be finished in just a few minutes,” Galdor said, still holding his place on the page. Glorfindel smiled tightly.

 

“While I did believe that when you said it an hour ago-“

 

“It has not been-”

 

“I would rather get back to my own rooms and come ag-“

 

“A few minutes more!”

 

“And come again,” Glorfindel repeated gently, “at a more convenient time.”

 

Galdor sat back and tipped back his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Glorfindel paused, caught between leaving as he had said and staying now that he finally had the attention he had hoped to catch.

 

“I am sorry,” Galdor said at last. “I have been neglecting you.”

 

“Come now, I am not so unaccustomed to that since my return,” Glorfindel replied, trying for a joking tone. Galdor only looked dismayed. He stood and began to pace.

 

“It is-you know that I did not expect…” He rubbed at his neck, distracted. Finally, he crossed the room to the fire and settled one hand on the mantel, almost as though he needed to steady himself.

 

“I mourned you, Fin. You were lost, and your return was without warning. And we are-that is, I am glad that you are back. But…” The noise he made sounded wounded.

 

“But?” Glorfindel said, uneasiness pricking him.

 

“But we came to this day and this hour by different roads. I do not pretend to understand the way you have come. I can only say that for me it has been nigh unto two thousand years since we parted. The world is changed. _I_ am changed.”

 

He was silent. What was there to say to counter the simple truth? Galdor must have read it in his face, for he stepped forward and laid his hands on Glorfindel’s shoulders. The gesture almost pained him, but he could not bear to step back.

 

“If we are to be as we were – and I am not wholly sure that we can be – we must come to know one another again.” Glorfindel was heartened by this.

 

“Well, we will have time enough on the road for that.”

 

“The road?”

 

“The High King’s party leave tomorrow,” Glorfindel laughed. “Do not tell me you have forgotten! I would hate to have to fetch you from your bed at the break of dawn!”

 

At that, Galdor was silent. He dropped his hands and stepped back, his eyes flicked to the window, and he addressed it rather than Glorfindel.

 

“I am no longer to come on the journey to Rivendell.”

 

Glorfindel paused a moment, then blew out a breath and shook his head. He folded his arms and tried not to tap his foot in irritation, all melancholy suddenly banished.

 

“Indeed?” he said with eyebrow cocked.

 

“The King has asked me to remain to assist with the daily running of the – now do not give me that look!” Glorfindel only rolled his eyes.

 

“And at what point would you have seen fit to advise me of this?”

 

“I had intended to tonight, only…”

 

 _Your mistress demanded you_. Glorfindel rubbed at his eyes, and neither man spoke for a time.

 

“I am tired,” he said at last, raking a hand through his hair. “Tired, and a little too much in my cups. I will retire, and we will speak later.” Galdor smiled and took the hand extended to him, reeling Glorfindel into his embrace.

 

“When you go,” Galdor muttered into his ear, “it will be as the patrols were in the old city. We can write, as we did then. It will be much the same – and we managed well enough, did we not?”

 

He drew back and took Glorfindel’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“Only let this pass, o golden flower,” he said, and laughed outright as Glorfindel jabbed him in the side, mouth twisted in amused irritation.

 

“That name-!”

 

“Is apt?” Galdor said, grinning, and caught Glorfindel’s arm as he jabbed again, and then they were wrestling like children, swinging one another around, tickling and laughing. Glorfindel caught Galdor’s ankle with his foot and he overbalanced, and Galdor’s weight sent them both staggering drunkenly into the wall with a thud. They stood breathless with mirth, Glorfindel’s arm hooked around Galdor’s broader shoulders for support. After a moment, Galdor wound an arm around Glorfindel’s waist, and spoke again.

 

“On your return, we shall see. When you return, I shall have less to concern me, and with luck you might settle a little better in Lindon – I know that Lannorion has asked you to help with the recruits’ swordsmanship, and you would do well to get back to training with others. Your solitary practice does not do you good.”

 

Glorfindel leaned into Galdor for a moment, then pulled him down for a brief, warm kiss.

 

“I will think on it,” he said at last. “As you say, on my return.”

 

“We may come back to how we were in time,” Galdor said. “But for now…” His eyes flicked to the desk, and Glorfindel nodded.

 

“Your work awaits. Very well,” he said. They parted, and despite the crackling fire and gold-woven hangings about the room, he felt unaccountably cold.

 

 _You did love me once_ , he thought.

 

“I will speak to you before the party leaves in the morning,” he said as he opened the door. Galdor only hummed in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the early days of Spring when the King’s company set forth from Lindon. True to his word, Galdor had come to speak with Glorfindel on the morning of their departure, although if truth be told, he was not sure what good it had done, and their parting had been awkward at best.

 

Once on the road, though, he could allow his concerns to drift away with the breeze and the gentle rocking of his horse.

 

Of all that he had missed of Middle-Earth since his re-embodiment, travel was chief. There was a freshness in the air that could not be captured in the sea-salt mist of Lindon. Great trees creaked and rustled along the edges of the road, and the song of the birds rose above the low murmur of conversation amongst the Elves, with the faint roar of the winds. He had not felt so light and free since Vinyamar, when he still travelled far abroad.

 

They were a large party. The King had left in the end with a retinue two hundred strong – a mixture of soldiers, workmen, scholars and assorted carts and horses that wound in a great trail far back down the road. They drew astonished looks from some small groups of travellers passing by, but equally many of those travelling the same route joined the party, exchanging news and laughter.

 

Glorfindel himself was caught up in conversation with the King. It had been a stilted conversation to begin with – Glorfindel had still not wholly forgiven Gil-galad’s request that Galdor stay behind. He had to concede, though, that it was Galdor’s choice to agree. He tried to ignore the sting that accompanied that thought, and resolved to put it from his mind as best he could. Recrimination was useless, and there would be time enough to talk upon his return to Lindon.

 

Still, it was good to speak with the King. Glorfindel had returned to the East barely two years before; the motivations that lay behind his errand were not wholly clear to him, but if he was feeling less than charitable, he might put it down to a wish by the Valar not to be quite so slow to act on this threat than they had proven to be in his first life. On his arrival, the King had kept him in conference for many an hour, and they had come to be something like friends, but after the exhaustion of his potential for news or instruction from the Lords in the West, Glorfindel was left at something of a loose end. The fall of Ost-in-Edhil had left a thin undercurrent of fear beneath every one of the people of Lindon. It felt as though they might lose the steady ground at any moment, and slip into calamity. Decisions were made with unacknowledged urgency, and few had the time for reminiscence.

 

They made good time on the road, and despite the size of the company, it was barely three weeks before they had put the rushing waters of the Hoarwell behind them. The broader grasslands grew denser and taller, and soon the road wound through the rise and fall of hilly woodlands. On the final day of their journey, as the scouts had said it would be, all rose before the daylight had come, and they pushed on across the Ford of the Bruinen, past hidden guards who only whistled to send news of their passing down the line.

 

They came to Rivendell at the breaking of dawn.

 

More eager than most to reach their destination, Glorfindel and Gil-galad had outpaced most of their companions. The pathways would have been almost invisible to mortal eyes, and Glorfindel had the familiar sense of passing into a place of secrets and hidden things. As they crested the final hill, both men pulled up their horses and for a moment, only looked down at what was before them.

 

The city stretched out before them, a spattering of whites, greens and browns against the pale rock of the valley walls. From the river ford, the path had risen, but below them it dropped quickly to the winding terraces outlined on the steep hills below. Even at that early hour, the paths before them rushed with people of all kinds, and carts, and animals. Waterfalls thundered in the distance, and misted the green lands beyond.

 

It was not Gondolin, Glorfindel thought, and realised that he had almost hoped it would be. But where Gondolin was a great shining fortress, bounded on all sides by towering mountains and watched besides by Eagles far above, Rivendell felt more as though it were growing from the mountain, twisted together from wood and water and stone. Homely, he realised, at least in time.

 

The path was not easy to follow down, and many of the larger carts had to be manoeuvred slowly and with some assistance. But runners came out to meet them, and soon they were on the level roads once more, passing between the patchwork of trees and half-finished buildings.

 

“Come,” Gil-galad said, as they handed off their horses to a pair of eager youths. “I had thought that Elrond had intended to meet us, but it would appear our journey is not yet ended!”

 

*

 

Gil-galad seemed to have a talent for running down his missing friend. Despite the twisting paths and general clamour, they soon came to the main house, and passed up wooden steps and into a great hall. It was, if possible, even more chaotic than had been the outside. The expansive interior was divided by white sheets into a maze of cubicles, where they could just catch glimpses of uniformed men and women tending to the injured and the sick. Down the centre of the room ran a single walkway, and at the end a great fire burned in a deep, tall fireplace.

 

They headed towards the fireplace. When they reached the end of the walkway, the white cloths opened out into a much larger space filled with tables. There were people working at each, folding bandages, sorting jars of herbs, shaking out sheets, and at the end-

 

“Elrond!” A black-haired figure clad in the pale uniform of the healers spun about at Gil-galad’s shout, and waved enthusiastically.

 

“Ereinion!”

 

They moved forward together and met with an embrace. Glorfindel followed at a somewhat slower pace to allow them their greeting, and so when he came to them, they were already deep in conversation. It was a moment before Gil-galad remembered him, and broke off.

 

“Ah! Elrond, I believe I wrote of our visitor some months ago – this is Lord Glorfindel.” Elrond’s eyebrows shot up, and he regarded Glorfindel with an unexpectedly keen gaze. They clasped one another’s forearms, and Elrond gave him a grin.

 

“I had not expected to see you!” he said. “Ereinion wrote of you, but he failed to mention your coming.”

 

“Doubtless he intended to see about surprising you,” Glorfindel said. Another of his illusions was dashed – Elrond plainly threw more to his mother, and Glorfindel could see little of Turgon in the young man. His grin was infectious, though, and Glorfindel found himself returning it despite himself.

 

“Speaking of surprises,” Elrond continued, “I have someone of my own for you to meet. The Lady Galadriel arrived some weeks ago from Lórien, and she has brought her daughter as travelling companion. The lady is…quite remarkable.” Elrond glanced behind him, and over his shoulder, Glorfindel could see a silver-haired maiden in pale blue leant over a pestle and mortar, caught up in laughter with another of the healers. He seemed momentarily breathless to speak of her, and Glorfindel noted curiously that Gil-galad was somewhat dimmed by the news, though he took pains to hide it.

 

“Indeed!” he said, with every appearance of enthusiasm. “You must introduce me at once, and then I will see about locating my cousin.”

 

“Oh, Galadriel is at the river,” Elrond said, as he led Gil-galad away. “She is drawn to the waters – she says they calm her.”

 

Gil-galad stopped suddenly and turned about as he remembered his companion.

 

“Glorfindel! My apologies, I was distracted.” Here he elbowed Elrond, who gave him a sheepish, apologetic look. “I will be with you momentarily, my friend.”

 

_Once more forgotten and out of place_ , he thought wryly. _At least something here is familiar._

 

“That will be well,” Elrond said. “I have much to do besides entertaining feckless nobility.” He neatly dodged Gil-galad’s swipe, and laughing, returned to Celebrían and the others to enthusiastic greeting. Glorfindel was silent as Gil-galad took in the sight, but when the King once more gave his attention, he could detect nothing of his thoughts on the pale face.

 

“Gildor is somewhere about the place,” Gil-galad said. “He and his folk have been assisting Elrond of late, having wandered far and about these lands for much longer than any others of the Noldor.”

 

“I remember him. When we still abided in Vinyamar, Lord Finrod was a regular guest in my Lord’s home – Gildor was of his people then, I believe.”

 

“He was. After my uncle died, he could no longer stand the walls of Nargothrond, and he and many others who followed him became wanderers.” Gil-galad paused, and for a moment his shoulders sank. “We lost a great many of our people in the later years, not only to the enemy.”

 

He shook his head and drew himself back up, then smiled.

 

“In any case. As I said, Gildor is about somewhere. If you can find him, bring him to the barracks –I would be glad to hear what he has to tell about the state of things in the lands nearby.”


	3. Chapter 3

Locating the man in question proved easier said than done.

 

Despite – perhaps because of – the work that had been done in the handful of years since its founding, Rivendell still gave the impression of a city that had yet to bed down comfortably. Its people at times seemed to work with a fervour driven by the fear of the shadow that had suddenly become a real and present threat since the fall of Ost-in-Edhil. As a consequence, new buildings were regularly interrupted by tents, wattle and daub structures were interspersed amongst the stonework, and where one month one might have found a party of builders from Lindon, on the next visit, the place might have been overtaken by Edain workers from the south.

 

As a result, the directions with which he had been provided (with firm assurance that things were not that complicated, and it would be easy enough for him to find his way) led him not to a training field, but to what looked to be a medicinal herb garden. He was thence led by one of the apothecary assistants down an alley of tents that had sprung up in the previous week (Elves lately arrived from Minhiriath, she told him, whose leader had been in conference with Elrond for several days) and sent on up toward the main House. From there he found the market, the stables, the Hall of Fire and the herb garden once more.

 

By this time, it was late morning, and he had spent almost three hours in search of the elusive Gildor. Glorfindel paused for a moment at the corner of a wattle and daub building that leaned downhill in a rather concerning fashion. He shook out his hair, now damp with sweat, and squatted down, leaning back against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes for a moment or two. Around him, the town spoke and breathed, rattled and sang. A group of children ran shrieking past.

 

“The whole world passing by,” Glorfindel muttered to himself, “and yet somehow the whole of the King’s guard is gone into the air.”

 

A shadow fell over his face. He squinted one eye open. A sharp-featured man looked down at him, amusement tugging the corners of his mouth. He had ink smudged on his nose, and a bruise above his right eye.

 

“I take it you’re new to Imladris,” the man said eventually.

 

“Just so,” he said, “although I appear unintentionally to have visited almost every part of it this morning.” The man’s smile stretched fully into a grin.

 

“Well, you may as well come inside,” he said. “If you stay leaning against the wall much longer, you risk becoming structurally necessary.” Glorfindel gave a surprised bark of laughter, and held out an arm.

 

“Help me up then – I believe my old patrol routes were shorter than this morning’s impromptu exploration.” The man hauled him up with surprising strength, and led him into the blessedly cool building.

 

He didn’t know quite what he had expected, but what greeted him inside was still something of a surprise. The room had the look of a box of books that had been dropped from a great height. On unsteady shelves, great, thick tomes sat next to slim, bright-covered books. Scrolls of paper were piled up on top of them, and crammed into any place where they would fit. Two tables sat at opposite sides of the room, both almost disappearing under the mass of papers and bindings. Even the flagstones were covered in teetering stacks, and there were several half-filled crates about the floor. The man disappeared for a moment through a doorway in the opposite wall, moving between the stacks with practised ease.

 

Glorfindel took a step forward. It was badly judged – he yelped and flung out an arm as a shelf of books as tall as him swayed ominously towards him. He pushed it back. A shower of scrolls smacked him on the head as they fell. He gathered them up and shoved them hastily back atop the shelf. He turned, and immediately caught his foot painfully hard on the corner of a crate.

 

“Mind the mess!” the man called from the back. Rather than risk toppling more of what he was sure was carefully-organised chaos, Glorfindel stood where he was and tried not to breathe too aggressively.

 

“I am Erestor,” he said, settling back into a wicker chair beside the window, “one of Elrond’s counsellors and, for my sins, the current keeper of the library.” His eyes flicked over the precarious stacks of paper and vellum that surrounded them.

 

“And is that…enjoyable?” Glorfindel said, still hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room.

 

“Ha!” Erestor grinned. He stretched out one leg and dragged another chair around. Glorfindel sat gratefully, his legs beginning to make their protest at several hours’ worth of searching.

 

“Frankly, I rather hope he finds some other poor sod to take over. The trust is gratifying, but the job has been an absolute bloody arse from the beginning.”

 

“Your mother must be proud of your eloquence,” he said, although he could not find it in him to be truly reproachful. Erestor snickered.

 

“Where do you think I learned it?” He slid further down in his chair and stretched, cat-like. He gestured to the bruise on his face. “I have fallen foul of the archives once already today, and I shall call the awkward bastards whatever I please.”

 

“Tell me,” Erestor continued, “do you possess a name, or would you prefer to maintain an air of mystery, o handsome stranger?” Glorfindel found himself blushing at the last, which seemed only to amuse him further. He turned his gaze to the window for a moment, feeling strangely off-balance. Erestor was attractive, certainly, but open flirtation was an aspect of this new Age to which he was still struggling to acclimate himself.

 

“Glorfindel,” he said.

 

“Ah? We have heard rumours of a ship from the West.” Erestor’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Is yours a namesake? Or…”

 

“Or,” he said, shortly. Erestor looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged, seemingly happy enough to let the matter drop at that. He turned his attention to the ledger that lay on the desk, frowning over a line or two.

 

Glorfindel leaned back into the chair and took the chance to study him properly, his errand momentarily forgotten. He did not have the look of a librarian. In fact, he had the look of the nascent city itself – haphazard, slightly too busy for his own good, and dusty besides. None of the officials wore robes, even Elrond himself, all seeming to prefer linen shirts and loose trousers. Erestor was no exception. His dark blue shirtsleeves were rolled and caught up at the elbow, and Glorfindel could see more ink stains on his surprisingly muscled arms.

 

_Librarian and counsellor indeed_ , he thought, _and what else, I wonder?_

He was not given long to wonder. Erestor slapped the book closed with a sudden finality and pinned him with a sharp gaze.

 

“You did not come here to sit and stare at me all day,” he said, “much though I might welcome the prospect.” A light flush found Glorfindel’s face once again, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

 

“I-that is, the King, sent me to find someone. Gildor!”

 

_Eru save me. Three languages to speak, and I cannot find words in any of them._

 

“Aah.” Erestor looked thoughtful, and sat back in his chair. He steepled his fingers. “You may find that rather a challenge.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Gildor left this morning.”

 

Glorfindel groaned, and slumped over onto the desk, his head resting on his arms.

 

“Why could the _first_ person I asked not have told me so?” he grumbled, in a somewhat muffled voice. “Why did Elrond not mention that, before Gil-galad sent me off on needless wandering?”

 

Erestor made a low sound that might have been a laugh.

 

“Elrond has likely forgotten. I would put it down to our lovely visitor from Lothlórien proving to be a distraction, but it is more likely the Healing Halls; in truth, even as a child he would sometimes forget insignificant things like mealtimes if something more interesting caught his attention.” Glorfindel saw, on raising his head, the fond look that had settled on Erestor’s face. His mind caught on what he had heard.

 

“Are you of Sirion, then? Whence came you to that place?” Erestor looked at him then with a somewhat heavier gaze.

 

“Not Sirion,” he said, oddly defensive. “My family were followers of Maglor.”

 

_Ah._

 

Fëanorian.

 

He had known that some few of the Fëanorian followers still lived in Middle-Earth, although the majority had not seen the dawn of the Second Age. But he had not thought…

 

“Did you…”

 

“I was too young.” Erestor’s expression had closed off, and Glorfindel was almost pained to see it. He could see the expectation of vitriol, perhaps, or the sorts of intrusive questions that Glorfindel himself was asked by curious courtiers. He clenched his jaw for a moment, swallowed, and finally sighed.

 

“Then it is good for Elrond that he has you to assist him,” he said at last. “Even if he does appear to be attempting to drown you in literature.”

 

Erestor huffed a laugh, and a little of the tension bled from his posture. Glorfindel was warmed by the sight.

 

“Well, mighty Balrog-slayer,” Erestor said, and Glorfindel winced – _not quite at ease yet, then_ , “You may help me to avoid that terrible fate. Some of the storage rooms in the main house are completed, and we are transferring the most fragile and valuable texts there to save them from further damage. You may make yourself useful and help me to carry them.”

 

Glorfindel felt his legs twinge in protest at the thought.

 

“I would be happy to help,” he said, “just as soon as I advise the King of Gildor’s departure.”

 

“Oh, but the King will be at the main house.” Erestor gave him a sunny grin. “You will solve two problems in one by carrying the crates on your way to him. In the spirit of efficiency, of course.”

 

Glorfindel made a great show of sighing in defeat.

 

“Very well, then. But you will need to guide me, or I may give the books a full tour of the local building works before I find my goal.”


	4. Chapter 4

Spring bloomed into summer, and time sped away, and Glorfindel found a sense of peace in Rivendell. He also found, to his surprise, a dear friend in Erestor. After that first day, he seemed to have been adopted for the manual labour that Erestor did not feel like doing. In return, he had good food, better conversation, and a sense of purpose that he had somewhat missed.

 

But the weeks of simple work could not last forever. In the late days of summer, the city prepared for other new arrivals, and Glorfindel found himself drawn once more into the realm of the political.

 

“It is only for a short while,” Gil-galad told him, with a strained smile. “I very much doubt that some of our visitors will stay any longer than necessary.”

 

“I will help however I can, of course,” Glorfindel said. He thought longingly of the company and conversation he would miss, and quashed the urge to pout like a child denied a sweet.

 

“If all you can do is distract them for a time, that will be enough.”

 

“I have distracted more fearsome foes,” he said, with all solemnity. Gil-galad gave an inelegant snort.

 

“You may find yourself regretting those words,” he said, and though Glorfindel gave him a questioning look, said no more.

 

*

 

“Erestor, you must hide me!” Glorfindel cried, wild-eyed as he burst into the office. He ran immediately into the table, grunted, and fell backwards onto the floor. He lay spread-eagle on the cool floor and closed his eyes.

 

 _There it is_ , he thought with a soft groan, _the thing that could make this day worse_.

 

“Shall I ask?” Erestor’s voice called from across the room, “Or shall I simply begin to compose your eulogy?”

 

Glorfindel raised one arm to give him an unconventional salute. Erestor snickered.

 

“I take it the party from the Greenwood has arrived?”

 

Glorfindel groaned louder. After a moment of silence, he heard Erestor’s footfalls, and cracked open one eye.

 

“Here lies the great Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor said, head bowed in affected grief, “Felled by the greatest of all foes – administration.”

 

“The administration, I can manage.” Glorfindel said. “The suspicion, I expected. The blunt speaking to the point of rudeness…well, that is only really Oropher.”

 

“Indeed? What is it, then, that has had you cast yourself upon the floor like a distressed maiden?” Glorfindel glared and kicked out at him, but Erestor only laughed and hopped out of reach.

 

“You are awfully cruel to your injured comrade. Is that what you were taught in the Fëanorian encampments?” Erestor stuck out his tongue, and Glorfindel laughed in spite of himself.

 

“We were not so easily defeated,” Erestor said.

 

“Oh, I believe this would defeat even you, my friend,” Glorfindel said darkly. “In the four short hours since their arrival, the members of Oropher’s party have insulted the welcome, the stables, the accommodation, the gardens, Lord Elrond and the King himself. The way they speak, I believe that they are only staying through sheer bloody stubbornness.”

 

“Goodness!” Erestor laughed. “It must be serious indeed to have you cursing! Come along, now.” He reached down an pulled an unwilling Glorfindel to his feet. “Up, before you sully your lovely tresses.” Glorfindel jabbed at him as he rose, but Erestor only cackled and danced away.

 

“The way things are, I believe they would take any flaw in my appearance as a personal insult,” Glorfindel sighed. He flopped into what had become _his_ chair in the past few weeks, and waved to Erestor’s assistant, who was working on the catalogues in the room opposite. Erestor shrugged as he took his own seat.

 

“Oropher is of Doriath, and dwells beyond the mountains – he has little reason to care for the Noldor. You were not there for the early days of the Second Age, when the scars were fresh. He called Elrond – now what were the exact words? – a traitor to his people, and a debasement of the blood of Elu.” Glorfindel gave him a disbelieving look, eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline. Erestor smirked.

 

“Do not look so concerned,” he said, “Oropher did not come off the better in that argument.” Glorfindel huffed out a laugh, and relaxed a little. “Things are not so bad these days.”

 

“I only wish that we could all be civil,” he said at last. “It seems so pointless and foolish to be arguing over hurts that are millennia old when we are all in such danger, divided as we are.”

 

“You forget, Glorfindel, that your story reached its conclusion, where many others have been left with unhealed hurts.” Glorfindel looked up at Erestor, who was for once quite serious. “Oropher is one of the last of Doriath, and has seen little justice for those that died.”

 

“What justice could there be?” Glorfindel asked. “How do we punish such crimes as those?”

 

“I am inclined to say that it is far better to have those of us who committed those acts work to redeem themselves – continue to fight, I mean, and try to repay at least some of the harm done. That is not the opinion of all, though, and I can understand the impulse for vengeance.” Here, he paused, and laughed. “Better than most, I would wager, given my past.”

 

“Still,” Glorfindel said, shaking his head, “This petty fault-finding is useless. If we are to have any hope of victory, we _must_ be as one. That has been proven to us time and time again.”

 

“Then let us hope that we may stagger toward some form of unity,” Erestor said, gently. Glorfindel smiled in return as he leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table, and resting his chin on his hand. He gazed out at the bustle of the road, melancholy.

 

“Well!” Erestor said suddenly, with some cheer, “This has rather foiled my efforts at productivity this afternoon.”

 

“Ah, I do apologise-” Glorfindel began, but Erestor waved it away.

 

“If you are truly sorry, then make it up to me this way – tell me a story.” Glorfindel gave him a puzzled look. “I am quite serious! I have spent so long putting some order to these books that I have had no chance to sit down and _read_ them. Is that not so, Lírneth?”

 

“My heart bleeds for you, Lord Erestor,” the woman called from the other room. Erestor gave Glorfindel a pained look.

 

“Rank insubordination,” he sighed. A ball of paper flew through the doorway and bounced off his head. Glorfindel choked on a laugh.

 

“A story?” he asked around a grin.

 

“Something I would not have heard.”

 

“Hm.” After a moment, Glorfindel nodded, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I have just the thing. This is a story that you will certainly not be familiar with. King Turgon was at great pains to ensure that it did not spread too far.”

 

“Interesting,” Erestor said, and matched his pose. “Do continue.”

 

“You know, of course, that at Gondolin we had but one way through the mountain – a hidden tunnel with seven great gates. Every now and then, the King would visit each of the gates and gate-keepers there stationed, to speak with us and, I think, to do what he could to prevent himself from becoming detached from his people.”

 

“How gracious,” Erestor said, in a voice as dry as dust. Glorfindel cocked an eyebrow.

 

“We appreciated his efforts,” he said mildly. Erestor raised his hands and inclined his head.

 

“Please,” he said, “I am listening.”

 

"This particular winter, the cold was far more biting than we were accustomed to, and the damp in the tunnels was pervasive. Everyone was miserable - the cold and ice being particularly unpalatable to those of us who- well." He cleared his throat. Erestor gave him a look, but said nothing.

  
"In any case," he soldiered on, "the King had decided to visit us poor sods on guard duty with the intention of lifting our spirits. So, one morning just after dawn, he came to the first gate with a few members of court, and something of a fanfare."  
  
"It had rained the previous night, and it was cold enough to freeze your ball-ah, nose off." Erestor smirked at his embarrassed grin, but gestured for him to go on. "And of course, the King had arrived early enough that the sun had not yet begun to take the frost away - something which he seemed to forget in striding down towards us."  
  
Here, he paused, and smiled. Erestor's lips had begun to curl into an anticipatory grin.  
  
"So when he began to slide-" Erestor snorted. "-well, there was little to stop him." 


	5. Chapter 5

The White Council meeting went as well as any of them had expected. Which was to say – all those who entered also left, and none was missing any significant limbs.

 

It was a remarkable feat in itself that they had managed to collect Gil-galad and Oropher in the same room, with little love lost between the two of them since the latter’s departure from Lindon, to say nothing of Amdír. Galadriel had come easily enough, and Elrond was, of course, included, but Glorfindel was most heartened to see that Erestor was also present, acting as a scribe and, he suspected, as quiet support. To that end, he was seated between Elrond, who was on Gil-galad’s right hand, and Glorfindel, with Galadriel and Amdír as a buffer between the High King and the King of the Greenwood. Maeril, one of Círdan’s counsellors was next, and between her and Glorfindel was the elf who led the refugees from Minhiriath, whose name Glorfindel had immediately forgotten and had not as yet found an opportune moment to ask for.

 

With places arranged for as little friction as possible, and with all good intentions, the meeting had commenced. They had made it fully half an hour, before…

 

“ _Noldorin imperialism?_ ” Gil-galad was on his feet, almost shouting. “What have you to say of imperialism, _King_ Oropher-” At this, Oropher stood also, and leaned over the table.

 

“My people follow me through choice, not through some accident or fortune of birth!”

 

“My lords, if we could-” Erestor tried to break in, but was swiftly drowned out. Glorfindel glanced at him in time to see him roll his eyes.

 

“Your people are so eager to escape from their imagined servitude that they would follow _anyone_!”

 

“How _dare_ -”

 

“Even a _stuffed-shirted_ -”

 

“You will show me due-”

 

“ _Self-interested_ -”

 

“Enough!”

 

Both men jerked in shock as Elrond’s voice rang through the chamber. The pause caused them to remember where they were. Both men returned slowly to their seats, but the thrumming tension remained.

 

“We did not come here to argue lordship,” Elrond continued, when all were quiet. “There is a shadow upon us – that much is inescapable. We must stand together if we hope to stand at all.”

 

Glorfindel was struck then by Elrond’s resemblance to his great-grandfather, and a sudden ache of longing for his old home took him by surprise. If he focused, he could almost hear the fountains in the courtyard of Ecthelion’s House, see the shine of the sunlight on white stone. He remembered the sprawling complex of his own House, and those who followed him. He felt he could be sitting in Egalmoth’s bright-flowered gardens, laughing over some small, foolish thing.

 

A hand touched his and brought him back to himself. He sat once more amongst the remnants of the great peoples of the First Age, squabbling like children over personal dislikes. In that moment, he felt he could have wept. Erestor – for it was his hand who had woken him – must have read something in his face, and curled his fingers around Glorfindel’s to give what little comfort he could. He clung to that and straightened in his seat.

 

In his distraction, he seemed to have missed some significant point.

 

“Lord Círdan feels that it may be unwise to split to Noldor at this time. A heavy blow was dealt to both our peoples with the loss of the city, and we are still collecting refugees even with these four years gone.” Maeril spoke evenly and with a light voice, but the strain was beginning to bear on all of them.

 

“Círdan may indeed be wary,” Galadriel replied, “but to leave Eriador unguarded would be foolish indeed. If Sauron took this advantage and built power here of his own – and we have no reason to believe that he would not – then the Noldor and Sindar would be truly divided, and there would be no safe place between the Misty Mountains the western coast.” Maeril nodded her dark head, and a flicker of a smile crossed her lips.

 

“You speak true enough. And my lord will defer to the decision of the Council.”

 

“Your people may do as they please,” Amdír said at last to the assembled Noldorin lords, “but we have lost too much to risk any more.”

 

“We are a fractured people as we stand,” Oropher added, having regained some of the cold composure that had left him when the flush of anger was on his face. “The Sindar will heal as a people, but we will do so alone.”

 

“Besides,” he said, casually, “ruin ever came to us through outsiders. If you will collect together every stray elf, man and dwarf that passes through this place, that is your business. We will not take the risk on ourselves.”

 

“Do you suppose then that we should turn away all but our own?” Glorfindel said in disbelief.

 

“You above all should know the consequences of giving aid to any who asks.” Glorfindel started as though he had been slapped.

 

“Yes,” he said, with a cold matching Oropher’s own, “I do remember when the actions of a wood elf brought us to ruin.” Oropher bristled, and pleasure at the sight burned in Glorfindel’s chest.

 

“The Noldor were ever brought to ruin by their own actions!”

 

“It was Eöl who entrapped the White Lady!”

 

“And doubtless the poison of cursed blood led his child to treachery.”

 

“His _father’s_ poison!” Glorfindel could feel a hand tight at his wrist again, but cared not. “The magic of a wood elf who desired always to hide in the shadows, and tainted all things that came near!”

 

“He never brought any other harm until your woman went stumbling in-”

 

“He never brought the elves of Doriath harm because you were too busy hiding behind the Girdle to care anything for the world outside! You would have us do the same, to build wall upon wall-”

 

_“We were safe!”_

 

“ _Very well!_ ” Glorfindel cried, “Then let us stay. Let us sit behind stone and magic as we once did, hide ourselves away and never care for the darkness as it sweeps over the lands that surround us. Let us watch impassive as those we might – indeed did! – call our allies fall one by one or are turned to dark ends! Let us watch at our walls and never see until it is too late that all others are gone, and we have built for ourselves a _prison_ and a _tomb!_ ”

 

A heavy silence fell in the wake of his words. He became aware, all at once, that he was on his feet, panting as though he had run for miles to reach them, blood surging in his ears. He made a conscious effort to uncurl his fists, and kept his eyes fixed on Oropher.

 

_Fool_ , he thought, _to let your anger run so uncontrolled_ , and he did not know which of them he meant.

 

“This argument serves no purpose,” Elrond said, remarkably calm for all that had been said. “I will not turn anyone away who asks for aid. We are not the only people to have suffered loss.”

 

“Galadriel speaks true also,” Gil-galad continued for him. “We cannot leave such a great swathe of land as Eriador without a stronghold. Therefore, we will give it one. Elrond is my vice-regent in any case – let him then keep this land, as best he can.”

 

“We will keep the roads clear,” Amdír said, “but we cannot assist you across the mountains.”

 

“Gildor has gone to the north, to the High Pass over Caradhras,” Erestor offered. “Moria has been closed to us since Celebrimbor fell. If we can keep the Pass between us, we will at least still have some chance to trade messages and goods. We expect his return before winter reaches us.” Amdír nodded at this, but Oropher gave no sign that he had heard. His fierce gaze lay still on Glorfindel, who found he was satisfied.

 

_I will not be easily forgiven. Let it be so! Better that I alone focus your anger than all the Noldor._

 

The meeting ended quickly after that, and the White Council dispersed. Elrond looked at Glorfindel, and for a moment he thought that he would speak, but Gil-galad called his name. Erestor took Glorfindel’s wrist lightly and led him away, leaving Gil-galad, Elrond and Galadriel to their private talk.

 

They wandered down towards the gardens in silence, arms linked. But where he had found Erestor’s presence a comfort, it now proved insufficient. He was filled with energy, breathing too deep and too fast, and somehow he felt awake for the first time since he had set foot once more on the eastern shores.

 

“My friend,” he said, and silver eyes turned to him. “I beg you, show me somewhere in this place where I might unsheathe my sword.”

 

Erestor smiled, and guided him away.


	6. Chapter 6

Glorfindel had, in the weeks he had been living here, begun to orient himself. Now, when he turned north, he recognised the farming terraces up on the mountainside beyond the trees, and the temporary barracks lay a little way west and south of where they stood. This place, though, he had not yet seen.

 

Erestor took him to a large, open square at the eastern edge of the city. It was bordered on all sides by trees, and on all sides the hills rose around them as shelter. Targets for archery lay at one end, and he could see straw dummies and wooden practice weapons stacked up at the other.

 

It was not for those that he had come, though.

 

He wondered at how he could have forgotten the weight of the sword in his hand, the rhythm of it as it cut through the air. It was as though he had been holding his breath for years without knowing, and had let it all go in a rush, lighter and light-headed.

 

That first day, he danced and swung the blade and counted one-two-three-four with his steps until his arms and lungs burned. His hair whipped about him as he spun to meet imaginary foes, and he laughed, he _laughed_. His feet skidded across the dust, and he was covered in dirt and sweat, and he was _whole_.

 

It quickly became part of his daily routine to visit the practice area of a morning, before breakfast. Sometimes he would find others there, sometimes not, although as the days went on, it was not unusual for him to have acquired an audience by the end of the first hour.

 

One bright, cool morning as he stepped out, he saw to his delight that Erestor was among the few scattered folks present. He was not in his work clothes now, but a short-sleeved white shirt tucked into dark brown breeches. He was embarrassed to find himself so distracted by this change that he missed Erestor’s greeting entirely.

 

“Is it too early for you, my friend?” Erestor said, a picture of false innocence. “I had thought to spar, but if you would rather return to your bed…” Glorfindel narrowed his eyes, then gave him a bright smile of his own.

 

“Not at all, Master Erestor. I was only distracted by concern – after all, your time has been occupied by your books for a long while, and I would not want to hurt you, out of practice as you are.”

 

“Ha!” Erestor stepped forward and Glorfindel saw that he had a pair of long blades sheathed at his hips. These he drew, and he gave a lazy grin. “Do not be concerned for me, my doddering friend. I, unlike some here, managed to survive the First Age.” A laugh bubbled out of Glorfindel’s throat, and he drew his own sword. Others in the square had begun to note them, and they already had a few curious spectators gathering. They circled one another slowly as they spoke.

 

“It must be simple indeed to come out of the war unscathed when you spend it squirrelled away behind a desk.”

 

“Come here and find out how wrongly you speak. Try not to trip – falling seems to be something that troubles you.”

 

“Are your knives as sharp as your tongue, loremaster?”

 

“As sharp, and just as practiced.”

 

“We shall see!” With that, Glorfindel leapt forward, and they began.

 

With a few passes, it was clear that Erestor was skilled. Every strike and thrust was countered – he barely made contact. He tried to pin Erestor, but somehow he danced away each time. Erestor’s arm whipped up and Glorfindel came alarmingly close to losing his blade. He struck again – their blades skidded together with a metallic hiss.

 

Erestor was fast and precise. Soon Glorfindel was on the defensive, parrying two blades with one. He brought his sword down hard, but Erestor was away and it caught the ground; the impact reverberated up his arm.

 

Then, Erestor lunged, unexpected. He went to step back, but misjudged. His foot slid out from under him and he met the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Erestor was on him in an instant. A blade kissed his throat, and he was staring up at his defeat.

 

He became aware of scattered applause from around them, and the occasional shout, but he could not look. His eyes caught on Erestor’s, transfixed, and they panted together, the knife still laid at his throat. It was long minutes before Erestor stood. He did not offer Glorfindel his hand. The small crowd, having had their fun, began to wander away on their own errands.

 

“My honour is suitably upheld, I hope?” Erestor said, with a strange frown. Glorfindel could only nod.

 

*

 

By this time, Glorfindel had many other duties with which to occupy himself, and had been provided with a small office of his own for the purpose. That day, however, he found that the accounts simply could not hold his attention, distracted as he was by the morning’s match.

 

Erestor had left quickly, and Glorfindel had stayed to run through his usual routine. He was unbalanced, though, and found that he was making foolish mistakes. Towards the end he had lost control of the momentum of his blade, almost sending it sliding through the dirt. Rather than make any more of a fool of himself in front of the morning’s training group, he elected to finish early.

 

He had not seen Erestor since then, and now, shortly before dinner, had not seen him for the rest of the day. It struck him that this had become highly unusual, and he wondered why it bothered him quite so much as it did.

 

Finally, as the bell rang for dinner, he gave up the work as a bad job and stood, giving a great, satisfying stretch.

 

_The river is not far,_ he thought _, and it has been long since I have enjoyed the music of the water._

 

With that in mind, he strode out towards the trees.

 

The walk went a good way to settling his mind. The sloping woods that led down to the Bruinen were cool, and in the dark of the evening they wrapped around him, quieting his thoughts. He breathed deeply of the mossy air, a smile playing about his lips. He felt himself uncoil as he wandered, and began to hum softly to himself.

 

When he arrived at the river bank, he found that he was not alone. There, leaning against the base of a great willow, shining white and gold against the dark, was the Lady Galadriel. He thought at first to go back, to find some other spot, but before he could act upon it, she turned her head and nodded in greeting.

 

“I have spent so long in the city that I found I missed the peace of the woods and the water,” she said, trailing her hand through the water.

 

“I do not wish to intrude, my lady.”

 

“It is no intrusion.” She raised a hand to him. “Come. Sit. I am not the only one in search of peace this night.”

 

He did as she had said, and they sat in silence for a while, only the burble of the river and faint rustle of leaves breaking the hush.

 

“What occupies your mind, Glorfindel?”

 

He was started at the question.

 

“I…was only thinking of something that happened earlier.”

 

“Aah.” She did not say any more, content, it seemed to watch the rolling water. She was luminous in the small light under the trees.

 

“I believe I may have given hurt to a friend unintentionally,” he said, at last. “I have not seen him all day, and that is most unusual.”

 

“Not since your bout this morning, you mean? Do not look so surprised,” she murmured, “gossip travels swiftly here.”

 

“I do not think you have given hurt. I believe Erestor may only just have realised his true feelings when it comes to you, while yours have been plain to see for some time.”

 

“My feelings?” He frowned.

 

“Your affection.” At that, he was startled.

 

“My lady, Erestor is a friend to me. I would not ask anything else of him, and besides, I do not…”

 

“No?” Galadriel canted her head. “How do you feel for him, then?”

 

This gave him pause.

 

Erestor was _attractive_ , of course. He had by now had many weeks in the company of the man to become used to the tilt of his jaw, and the spark in his silver eyes when he laughed. He could not fail to see the shine of candlelight on his dark hair, or smell the sharp note of lemon soap that rose above the musty scent of the books in the hours they spent together. But that did not mean-

 

“Glorfindel,” Galadriel said gently, bringing him suddenly out of his reverie. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I did not mean to cause you such troubled thoughts, or to imply a lack of faith on your part. I only speak of what I see.”

 

“I did not take offence.”

 

“And yet I fear that I may have given it. Nonetheless…” She paused, considering him. He felt suddenly laid open, a wound, with all his innermost self bare to her gaze. “Only consider for me how you do feel. It does not do anyone good to live in the past, and I fear that you may have spent overlong looking for something which was lost when you passed West.”

 

“I do not know what you mean.”

 

“No?” Galadriel arched an eyebrow. “Tell me, you arrived in the spring, did you not?”

 

“I did.”

 

“And we are now well past the beginning of the leaf-fall.”

 

“That is so.”

 

“Have you yet written to Galdor?”

 

“I…what?” Galadriel held his gaze for a long moment.

 

“Galdor. Have you written to him? For that matter, has he written to you?” Glorfindel felt cold pit begin to form in his belly. In truth, he had not thought of Galdor for many a day – but by the same token, he had received no reminder.

 

“It is not for me to tell you your mind,” Galadriel said, although Glorfindel thought then that if anyone knew his mind, it was she. “But it would do you good to begin to lay your roots, my friend. You have spent much time clinging to what is lost, and little looking to what may be.”

 

She seemed to feel that she had said enough. Galadriel clasped his hand and smiled, and then stood. She wound her way back through the trees, graceful and ephemeral, taking with her everything that he had thought he could rely upon.

 

Glorfindel gazed into the water, and did as she had bidden.


	7. Chapter 7

Galadriel’s words followed him for many a day afterward. Days in which, he was put out to find, he barely saw Erestor at all, except for the back of his head as he disappeared through some door or around a corner, only to have vanished entirely when Glorfindel attempted to catch him.

 

To his dismay, he had realised that she was right – he did feel something deeper than friendship for Erestor. It had come upon him so slowly that he had barely recognised it, and yet now looking more clearly, he realised that the other man had become dearer to him than he could have imagined. It was only when Erestor was removed so cleanly from his life that he realised how often they spoke, worked together, laughed, how many times in a single day he would make note of something he thought to share later, or considered what Erestor might make of some little happening.

 

It was all that Galdor had ceased to be – what they had not shared since long before Glorfindel’s death.

 

And it had suddenly become clear to him. Glorfindel realised, devastated, that Erestor no longer wished to see him now that he understood the truth of Glorfindel’s feelings.

                                                                                                                                       

For days he paced, a half-step behind himself, stumbling to catch himself so he did not fall. What recourse was there to this? To whom could he speak? Who could understand?

 

And then, like storm clouds parting over the sea, all was suddenly clear. There was one person he knew who might be able to advise him.

 

*

 

It was four weeks before the darkest night of the year when Glorfindel finally made his decision. Late that evening, he found himself outside the rooms assigned to the King, knocking firmly on the pale wooden door. He heard a muffled call to enter from inside, and went within.

 

“My King,” he said, bowing his head. Gil-galad stood from his chair, surprised.

 

“Are we to rediscover formalities in our relationship, Lord Glorfindel?”

 

“When I have finished, you may wish it so,” Glorfindel said, “but I fear there is no other I might speak with on this matter.” Gil-galad cocked an eyebrow at this, but made no answer.

 

“I have come to ask what you will feel is an excessively personal question, but I feel that I must have the answer.”

 

Gil-galad blinked in surprise, but he nodded slowly.

 

The King’s rooms were almost stiflingly hot after the chill of the autumn night. Glorfindel shucked his heavy coat and slung it across one of the stuffed armchairs near the fire. With the fabrics on the walls, the sturdy, heavy furniture and the desk beside the wide window covered with papers, he was reminded suddenly of his last night in Lindon. He gritted his teeth and began to pace, searching for the words.

 

Gil-galad, seeming content to allow him to proceed as he would, wandered to the cabinet in the far corner of the room and retrieved a decanter of amber liquid and two glasses. He set these on the table, and poured two generous measures.

 

“I have been speaking with your cousin,” Glorfindel began, but then found himself at a loss. Gil-galad hummed.

 

“That does go some way to explaining your current state. She does have that effect.”

 

“I did not specify which cousin.” Gil-galad pinned him with an amused look, and he conceded, plucking the proffered glass from the King’s hand. He rolled it between his palms, staring into the swirling liquid. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the King straightening his desk.

 

Finally, decisively, he drained his glass. He shuddered with the burn of the alcohol in his throat. Then, he turned to Gil-galad, who was leaning back against his desk, regarding him over his own glass with a curious look.

 

“My Lord. You are in love.” Gil-galad tensed, and stood from the desk. “I do not mean to condemn. In fact…I find myself in a similar position.” The King frowned.

 

“Do you indeed?”

 

“I must know what you do, how you cope with loving someone who does not…who has not the same feelings.”

 

Gil-galad blinked, then gave a gusty sigh that ended in a laugh.

 

“This, I believe, will take more than the one glass.” So saying, he topped up his own, and refilled Glorfindel’s. “Although this is a fine whiskey, and I will thank you not to drain it at quite such a pace.” Glorfindel, abashed, chuckled nervously.

 

“In the first instance, I assume that I can trust to your discretion?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good. You understand that, in my position…”

 

“I would not dream of breaking your confidence, my- Gil-galad.”

 

Gil-galad gave a short nod at that, and led Glorfindel over to the fire. He sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs and gestured to the other. Glorfindel dropped onto the edge of the other seat, jiggling his leg nervously.

 

“Now. We may as well begin with this – I do not believe that our circumstances are the same.”

 

“Gil-”

 

“Hush a moment. Let me speak.” He raised his glass and took a sip, gazing into the fire. Glorfindel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “My situation, such as it is, is irretrievable. I came to a crossroads and took the wrong path.”

 

Gil-galad smiled wearily. Glorfindel, so used to thinking of him as young – almost too young to rule – saw all at once, in his face and his posture, the weight of a life of near-constant war.

 

“If there ever was a time that there could have been something between us, it is long since past,” Gil-galad said. “It was an ill chance that I missed what was in front of me, and now…” He seemed unwilling to finish the thought, and only sank back in his armchair, eyes closed.

 

A thread of silence spooled out between them. Finally, Glorfindel spoke.

 

“And what do you do now?”

 

Gil-galad chuckled tiredly, and opened his eyes once more to meet Glorfindel’s gaze.

 

“There is no going back,” he said, “and so I have only one choice – I go on.” Here, he tilted his head towards his friend, and gave him a sad, knowing smile. “We all go on.”

 

“Now comes the advice,” he said, “which I truly hope you heed. I had the chance for something, which, in my foolishness, I let slip away. You are standing at the same crossroads. Pursue this chance, and I believe you may find something precious awaits you. But if you allow Erestor to believe you do not feel for him – oh, do not look so surprised, my friend, I am not blind – then you truly will find yourself in my position. You will remain friends, and that will be all.”

 

Glorfindel was silent. Filled with doubt, he drained his glass once more. Gil-galad did the same, then stood and pulled Glorfindel up with him.

 

“I am sending out my final messengers to Lindon the day after tomorrow,” he said, clapping Glorfindel on the back as he led him to the door. “And on their return, we will have no more in from there until the spring. If you have any pressing business to attend to, I suggest that you do so with all haste.”

 

Glorfindel felt the whiskey in his limbs, and yet now with renewed purpose, he felt steadier than he had since speaking with the Lady. He nodded to himself as he crossed the threshold, and as he walked away towards his office, he did not notice the door being shut behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

When he had arrived at Rivendell in the Spring, Glorfindel had been struck by the bustle of it, the inexhaustible energy of the people that seemed to pervade every nook and cranny of the place.

 

That had been nothing to what it was now, on the Winter Festival. Candles and lanterns blazed in every dark place and danced amidst the houses. The air was frosty and hung with the white breath of the mass of people thronged all about. The open area in the centre of the city that had become a market square was transformed, ringed all around with holly and bright ribbons, and musicians playing merrily on a stage set up at one end. The people danced and laughed like children and shared food from a long table laden with meats, breads and sweet things.

 

And though the mood was gay and it was almost impossible to be downcast, Glorfindel was pressed with a nervous energy, as he cast about for Erestor.

 

It seemed that every person in the city was spilled out into the streets. At every fall of dark hair, his heart leaped, only to fall as a turn of the head revealed a cheek too soft or eyes too dark to be the one for whom he was searching.

 

It was while he was making his way past the dancers, smiling and shaking his head at a woman who caught his eye in invitation, that he saw a flash of the profile that he knew all too well. With renewed vigour, he leaped forwards and, determined not to let Erestor slip once again from his sight, dashed after him. He caught the other man around the waist but misjudged, sending them both reeling into the wall beside them with a thud. Erestor gave him an astonished look, and a nervous laugh.

 

“So here you are,” Glorfindel said. He caged Erestor against the wall, aware that he could break away if he were to make the effort, but to his great pleasure, Erestor stayed.

 

“Here I am indeed.”

 

“You have been avoiding me.”

 

“No! I have been busy, that is all, and I…” Erestor stopped, sighed, and seemed to give in at that, tipping his head back against the wall. He was barely an inch shorter than Glorfindel, and Glorfindel was entranced momentarily by the dark brush of his lashes as Erestor’s eyes dipped closed. “Yes, I have been avoiding you.”

 

“Why?” he said, and bit down what tried to follow. _What do you feel? Was it my doing that you fled?_

 

Erestor was silent, almost frozen against the wall, but his hands came to grasp Glorfindel’s forearms tight.

 

“My friend,” Glorfindel said. “You must tell me. We cannot continue like this. You are too dear to me.” Erestor made a small sound, half-laugh, half-sob, and opened his eyes.

 

“That, you see, is the problem,” he said. “You are dear also to me.”

 

“Is it such a bad thing as that?”

 

“Like this, it is.”

 

“And what is that?”

 

“Fin!” Erestor said, pained, “Do not ask. I only need a little time. Come the spring you will return to Lindon, and to those who await you there. Give me until then, and things can be as they were.”

 

“If there is one thing I have learned well this past year,” he replied, “it is that things can rarely be precisely as they were.” The look the other man gave him then was familiar, the look that he himself had worn when he believed that Erestor was lost to him. It warmed him, not for what it was, but for what it meant.

 

“I am not to return to Lindon in the spring,” he said. “The King feels that I will be of more use here in Rivendell.” Erestor met his gaze, plainly confused.

 

“What of…those you left behind? Friends? A lover?”

 

“Erestor, you are the first true friend I have made on these shores.” He fought the urge to clasp Erestor’s face in his hands, determined to say what he had to. “And as for the rest…”

 

“The rest is rather the point,” Erestor said, sounding almost petulant. “And I had not thought you faithless. What of Galdor?” Glorfindel cast his eyes heavenward. _Gossip!_

 

“Galdor and I will always be friends,” he said, “but from two days past, when I received his letter, we are no more than that.” A dawning, wary understanding crept over Erestor’s face.

 

“I told you, Erestor, you are too dear to me.” Erestor’s hands still clung to him.

 

“And you to me,” he said at last. “What is it that you want?”

 

“Everything,” he said simply.

 

The silence between them seemed to drown out the shouting and singing that surrounded them. Glorfindel felt as though he stood once more on a cliff’s edge, awaiting a fall, or a hand to pull him back. His body sang with anticipation and fear.

 

Finally, Erestor’s lips curved up into a smile.

 

Whatever he might have said then was lost as Glorfindel finally leaned down to kiss him. He gave an involuntary moan that neither could hear over the music, but both must have felt. Erestor’s mouth was soft beneath his, and suddenly he was pushing back, and they were clung tight together.

 

Glorfindel’s heart raced in his chest, and he could barely draw breath. He slid his hands up to Erestor’s warm, dark hair, felt his body tingle where they were pressed together. Erestor’s arms wound around his waist, pulling him close.

 

“Erestor,” he gasped, but the next was swallowed as Erestor made a hungry sound and pressed back up, and slotted their mouths together again, flicking out his tongue across Glorfindel’s lips. He moaned again, and felt a pulse of heat run through him, gave himself up to it. Erestor’s hands slid to his hips and drew him in even closer.

 

Suddenly, a shriek of laughter from nearby reminded him of where they were.

 

“ _Erestor_ ,” he panted finally, pulling back just far enough to see his eyes darkened from bright silver to storm-grey.

 

“ _Glorfindel_ ,” Erestor growled in return. “I sincerely hope you are not having an attack of moral fortitude.”

 

Joy overflowed in him, and laughter bubbled forth. He curled one hand in Erestor’s hair and slid the other down to the small of his back to close whatever small space might be left between them.

 

“Quite the opposite, my dear,” he murmured, close enough now that the music and shouts could not hope to drown out the words. “I was only thinking to find somewhere rather quieter and more private.”

 

“Good. I am glad that was so thoroughly mistaken.” Here he canted his hips, and Glorfindel could not contain a gasp.

 

“I should have made myself clear,” he said, and could not resist dropping a light kiss on Erestor’s lips. “I fear it took overlong for me to be clear with myself. Do you forgive me?”

 

“Oh, no, not yet,” Erestor laughed, “I feel myself terribly ill-used. You will have to make it up to me.”

 

Glorfindel grinned, and he felt that he must be glowing bright. In a sudden rush, he felt his skin prickle, his stomach swoop – he closed his eyes and for a moment he was untethered, adrift in the star-filled night, and he and Erestor were the only souls in the whole of creation. The hand that had been on Erestor’s back, he now slid down his arm and laced their fingers together.

 

“I will,” he said, low and warm. “For as long as you wish.”


End file.
